Maelstrom
by IOwnABoat
Summary: "You didn't come all this way, in the rain...you didn't almost DIE to be put off by one unanswered call." Set during that special night between "Always" and "After the Storm".
1. Chapter 1 - Tear Down The Wall

**MAELSTROM**

 **CHAPTER ONE – TEAR DOWN THE WALL**

* * *

 _A/N - First time Castle writer. Feedback welcome! Cheers. Thanks to the lovely **47alwayswriting** for the thoughtful beta._

 _Disclaimer - I do not own Castle. Nor do I own Pink Floyd, or their lyrics. Don't sue me, I'm broke._

* * *

She's soaked to the skin, and feels like she's frozen to the bone. But the deep sadness that settled on her like a suffocating blanket when she stepped out the door on her wandering trek is chilling her more than the rain ever could.

It's hard to believe that she could ever be warm and dry again. In truth, part of her doesn't want to ever be. The rain is her self-flagellation. The walk from her apartment to that bookstore where he once angrily berated her for her summer-long silence, to the swings where they made amends, and now to his apartment building where she stands staring up at his dimly-lit window, with the monsoonal storm pelting down on her - it's all been part of her penance. But it's also supposed to be her therapy. She needed it, to scour her, to cleanse her.

She wanted the rain to drive away her remaining doubts. Make her forget the destructive urges that have eaten away the back of her mind for thirteen years. She wanted the downpour to wash away the last vestiges of anger at him, at herself, at the world. And while it is has succeeded, somewhat, it's also left her bereft. And now, while that ever self-destructive part of her welcomes the icy desolation, she knows she needs to be warm again.

She can only think of one place where that can happen. And only one person with _whom_ it can happen. One obnoxious, egotistical, infuriating, but at the same time dear, caring, wonderful person she wants – _needs –_ to be warm and dry with. The paradox that is Richard Castle.

Yet, there's a lingering voice persistently whispering to her that should still be livid with him.

Four years ago, he started this whole thing again. Even when she told him to leave it alone. Yes, he was remorseful and later urged _her_ to leave it alone, and she knows now why he did it. But the self-righteous, vindictive part of her keeps up its quiet, yet hatefully incessant chatter _._

 _It's all his fault anyway. Stop THINKING about him._

 _He was the one who opened up this can of worms and then bailed when it all got too tough. Guilty conscience, much? What a damned coward, cutting and running._

 _And he lied to you. LIED to you for almost a year. Hid this all from you. What the hell?_

 _He doesn't deserve any more energy on...on THINKING about him, let alone going to him._

 _What the hell are you doing, here at his apartment? STOP THINKING ABOUT THE BASTARD._

The voice drones on quietly, incoherently and angrily in her skull. With the rain driving down hard on her head, it almost becomes a pleasant mantra. Until it becomes unbearable. _Wrong_ **.**

With a vicious finality, she forces the voice away. Subdues it and pushes it into a locked box in her mind where she keeps all her shameful secrets, all the thoughts that should never, _ever_ be given serious consideration. For even though there is some truth in the bitter diatribe, she knows in her heart that it doesn't matter anymore.

The past is the past.

The wall is almost down. She's sick – utterly _sick_ – of that wall, and her wish to hide behind its tempting isolation. She wants out.

And she wants to be warm again.

* * *

As if in a daze, she steps out of the elevator that lands with a lurch and a ding! at his floor. Her trembling fingers unzip the front pocket of her jacket, the drenched leather squealing in protest as it stretches tautly. She pulls out her phone, and brings up his contact details. As it rings, she stares hopefully at his grinning, buffoonish face on the screen.

It rings out. It hasn't gone to voicemail. He ended the call. He really is done with her.

She stands there for a minute or two, staring at the phone. Water pools at her feet. The chill starts to bite, but it's not the only thing making her shake. The finality of his rejection seems too much to bear. It hits her, almost as hard as the bullet that struck her in the chest almost a year ago. It definitely hurts more.

Nothing else seems as devastating. Not Montgomery's betrayal and redemption, not the beating she took at the hands of Maddox, not being left for dead and hanging by her fingertips. Not knowing the truth about her mom's death, after having come _so close_.

None of those indignities, those _tragedies –_ none of them seem to matter as much as Castle not answering her call.

It's almost too much. But not quite. She raises her head defiantly.

 _You didn't come all this way, in the rain...you didn't almost DIE to be put off by one unanswered call,_ she berates herself furiously.

She'll give this one more try. She'll say sorry. She'll beg. She'll scream. Because they both need this. They both _deserve_ this.

As she wills her legs to move towards his door, she suddenly recalls an animated army of red hammers marching together to a martial beat. And even though it's anachronistic and weird, she hears the famous line ringing over and over in her head - _"Tear down the wall! Tear down the wall!"_ in accompaniment to judgmental, swirling organ, abrasive guitar chords and the memory of a needle in the groove of an old, worn-out, much-loved vinyl record. It seems fitting that her mother's favorite album with its stirring climax should come to her now, as she desperately tries to destroy that stubborn wall.

If only she'd listened to that album more over the past few years. Or pulled out her old VHS of the movie adaptation and watched it. Maybe she would have taken its moral lessons to heart just a bit sooner. Recognised herself, even slightly, in the tormented figure of Pink the musician and his ultimately futile quest to barricade himself from anything that could ever hurt him.

Standing in front of that familiar door, it suddenly seems like an impenetrable barrier to happiness, a forbidding rampart closed to any and all, but especially her. She raises her hand tentatively, knuckles poised, and courage almost escapes her. She sees his broken, puffy face in her mind, remembers his defeated words - "This is, um...over. I'm done". And the finality of that quietly-closed door as she stood there stunned, hurt and livid. But mostly hurt. And now she chokes up, arm frozen in position, and her only movements are the shivers that wrack her body.

She almost breaks. Almost turns around and runs. Like she's done for the past four years.

But once more she hears that persistent ear-worm again. It's like her mom is shouting at her through the Floydian prose: _"Tear down the wall! TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"_

In her mind she snarls, reaches out and smashes her fist through those remaining bricks. Obliterates them into dust.

Who knew they could be so fragile, so pathetic, in the face of what she wanted, what she actually needed?

The light tapping on his heavy front door breaks the silence. A minute later it swings open, just as lightning flashes violently through his living room windows, illuminating his expectant, mildly-friendly greeting face. Which then drops at the sight of her. A frown mars his features. The mask goes up. His own wall, one that she helped build. She shudders inwardly at the shame of it, the hand she has had in the closing-off of this irrepressible man-child.

"Beckett, what do you want?"

The voice is flat and unwelcoming. At least if it were furious she'd feel better. But even in her fragile state, she can hear the ragged emotion behind his flat tone. And even though it's back to "Beckett", and not "Kate" - even though any affection or care is buried under deliberate layers of cold indifference, she knows. She knows because she's been that person. She's built her own walls. She can recognize this one a mile away. And she knows she can get through it.

"You."

In the end, this is all she has. One word. And herself.

As she lurches through his door to grab him and kiss away the wall, to break his resolve, to show him through actions, and as she feels his lips yield to hers and the shudder that runs through him as she molds herself to him, she knows that his wall, as strong and as high as he might have tried to build it in the past day, can be no match for this.

For them.

* * *

Staring into his blue eyes, dark with longing and lust and wonder, she smiles. She knows how he feels. His slack-jawed face betrays the maelstrom of emotions running through him; but she knows how to fix it.

She might not yet be able to voice the truth that she's known for so long – after all, that's another wall for another day – but she can show him.

As she tugs on his hand to gently lead him to his own bedroom, she feels a warmth enveloping her that she knows is not just the loft's central heating.

She is with the one person who can make her feel warm. And safe.

And outside, as the storm rages and intensifies, they create so much heat in his bed that it seems impossible that either of them could ever be cold again.

* * *

 ** _Mother, did it need to be so high?_**

 **Pink Floyd - "Mother"**


	2. Chapter 2 - Keep Talking

**MAELSTROM**

 **CHAPTER TWO – KEEP TALKING**

* * *

 _A/N - long chapters coming up. Thanks for the welcome, guys! Again, **47alwayswriting** was a great help in making sense of some of my mess. _

_Disclaimer - I still don't own Castle, or Pink Floyd. Or Stephen Hawking for that matter._

* * *

" _I'm so sorry, Castle. I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."_

" _What happened?"_

" _He got away. And I didn't care. I almost died...and all I could think about was you."_

" _I just want you."_

* * *

" _...I just want you..."_

The memory of the last coherent words she whispered to him keeps ringing pleasantly in his head, over and over.

Outside, the storm just won't quit. Torrential rain smashes punishingly against the windows, and the frequent crashes of lightning rip the darkness apart with shocking violence.

The rainfall seemed to intensify their first time together. The pounding of water against the world, cleansing and purifying it, couldn't have been a more appropriate backdrop for their frenzied, life-affirming lovemaking. In the aftermath, listening to the cacophony is comforting. It's a reminder that while out there is chaos and tumult, in here, in his loft, in his bedroom, _in his bed_ , there is warmth, shelter and peace.

Castle finds himself idly wondering if his overactive imagination has finally taken over and he's now certifiably insane. Then again, if this is insanity, he'll gladly sign up to being swaddled in a straitjacket for life. Because lying in his arms, the comfortable weight of one leg draped over both of his, is Kate Beckett.

He supposes that he might be dreaming. But no dream has ever felt this real. If it is one, it is astounding in its detail and textures.

He's pretty sure he never dreamed that he'd be lazily studying the patterns of dim light gleaming softly on her sweat-streaked back. Nor can he recall ever feeling the warm breath of Kate Beckett in the hollow of his neck in any sleeping fantasies he's ever had about her. And he's had plenty.

He knows that the feel of her nose as it nuzzles against the stubble under his chin is more than just a product of his nightly subconscious going mad. And her lips, as they gently suckle and murmur sweet nonsensical nothings... and there's no way he could have ever dreamed that Beckett would even be _capable_ of sweet nonsensical nothings. This quiet, tender Beckett is also such a contrast to the very enthusiastic, commanding woman who just ravished – and _ravaged –_ him. And he still can't believe _that_ happened either. Even with all the physical evidence at hand, let alone the vivid memories branded into his brain; memories he knows will last until he expels his final breath.

She was right, after all, all those four years ago: he'd had no idea. About a lot of things. But mostly, just how _right_ it would feel, in post-coital bliss, with her. Never in a million years would he have imagined the sheer joy that having her naked body pressed to his would bring him. Considering the way they'd parted in her apartment a night ago, it's almost impossible to believe that she's here at all. And that she gave herself to him, so openly, so unlike the guarded, closed-off Beckett who has enraged and enraptured him for so long.

The Kate Beckett he's known all this time is still there. He knows that the logical, hard-headed, tenacious cop hasn't changed. But _this_ Kate Beckett, this warm, passionate woman...she's a revelation. He hoped and dreamed, of course. He's wanted to be with her for so long now that the longing might as well have become part of his DNA.

He'd long ago proved to her that he was more than a thorn in her side, and then showed her that he was much more than the mildly irritating Court Jester who provided the occasional glimpse of brilliance. He was her partner. Her friend. But after last night, when he bitterly, brokenly declared his love for her _knowing_ that she had no choice but to hear and acknowledge it, he never thought that he'd have the chance to show her that he could be more. Especially after he'd walked away.

He wasn't even sure if she deserved his love anymore.

She was too consumed, too obsessed. In her raging quest to bring the light of truth to those dark corners, she'd blinded herself, permanently, to anything they might have had together. He had meant it – he was done. It was over.

Even when she'd shown up at his door, bedraggled and forlorn (but still, so, so beautiful) – he'd not for one instant thought that she wanted him, if she ever really had. That damn wall she'd built was so high, so hateful, so despicably strong. And even without the wall, there was all the hurt they'd caused each other. Their mutual betrayals. It was all too much.

But then she told him. And then showed him. And god, how she showed him.

" _I just want you."_

He knows he should ask her about the other things she said.

She almost died? What? He got away? Who? Her shooter? Where?

What the hell actually happened?

The thing is, though, he can't bring himself to care all that much. Truth be told, he'd be happy to lie here in this wonderful bubble, neither of them speaking, forever. His rational mind tells him that of course this isn't going to last (someone will break the silence soon; hell, at the very least, they'll sleep, or he'll have to get up to pee), but the pure joy he feels as he gently, lazily runs one hand up and down her spine, revelling in the sensation as her breath hitches slightly at his touch almost makes him believe that forever could last right here, right now. At the very least, he could die a happy man at this instant and be totally satisfied.

If he's completely honest with himself, the prospect of having those important talks – even the innocuous ones that normal lovers have – is kind of daunting at the moment. So he doesn't feel the need to try and change it. For once in his life, he's happy to remain quiet.

To bask in the darkness, in blissful, meaningful silence.

Until she breaks it.

* * *

"Castle?"

Her voice is quiet, scratchy, and raw. She'd...yelled a bit before. Okay, she can admit it to herself. She'd screamed. Thank god no one else is home. She just hopes the walls of the apartment are as thick as they are undoubtedly expensive.

"Hmmm?" he murmurs after a little while, as though he's reluctant to answer her. She understands the reluctance. For a while the only noises permeating their pleasantly lazy stupor have been their mutual, slowly-deepening breathing and the muffled roar of the storm outside. That, and the lack of sound from Richard Castle, the born talker, has been kind of wonderful.

But there's something that's been on her mind for ages, ever since that night in the hospital after they interviewed Kyle Jennings, the reluctant zombie killer. Castle had stood outside in the corridor and made those pointed comments to her about people not forgetting horrible trauma.

He had known. He'd known that she knew what he said.

 _How_ he'd known, she still can't fathom. But suddenly, in that corridor, his childish, hurtful behaviour of the previous few weeks, his coldness, his pained looks and blasé but painful comments - they had all made sense.

He was hurting, and he was hurting because she remembered everything that had happened to her as she bled out on the vibrantly-green cemetery grass all those months ago. As he cradled her in his arms and begged her not to leave him.

" _Kate...I love you. I love you Kate..."_

But even then, she couldn't admit to it. She wasn't strong enough. Didn't feel safe. Didn't have the courage.

She was still behind her wall.

But that's all changed now.

Now that she's come to him and offered herself to him - ever since she made that decision to choose him over her job and her quest, she's realised that she needs to come clean. And so does he.

He's been very good at obfuscating these past couple of months. She's ashamed for a minute when she thinks her infamous reticence might have rubbed off on him a little too much; but then she remembers that Richard Castle has _always_ been the master at presenting a flamboyant, cheeky and carefree image while hiding deep undercurrents of unspoken wants, needs, and even pain. It took her a while to figure this out, but now she has, and she's not going to let him get away with hiding things from her any more. Any more than she should hide things from _him_.

But... it's so hard to bring up. In her head, she's rehearsed asking this of him: gone through exactly how she'd phrase this important question. In the end, her rehearsals are all for naught, and she awkwardly blurts out the question: "How did you know?"

"Know?" He sounds truly puzzled.

"When I was...you know."

She feels rather than sees the questioning eyebrow he arches. _God damn it, why is this so hard._ She sighs and tries again.

"What you said to me. At Montgomery's funeral."

She feels him tense up beneath her. She raises her head and stares into his eyes. Even in the dim light, the blue of them is radiantly bright. But his expression is unreadable, which surprises and dismays her. The blank-faced, self-protective Castle, the man who caused her so much heartache in the past few weeks, the one she couldn't understand and even hated a little, is back. But she persists.

"How did you know that I...that I knew?"

She trails off, his blank face and her inability to speak clearly becoming too much.

Then, thank God, he relaxes slightly, and even chuckles. Her relief is short-lived though, as he pulls a typical Castle move and hides behind a quip. "Seems like a very 'chicken-or-egg' question."

In spite of herself, she feels that old irritation with him rise again. She pushes herself off him and glares. "Castle..." she warns, before she can stop herself. He immediately reaches out to stroke her shoulder, gently pulling her close.

"Kate...does it matter now? I mean, you're...here. I'm here. It's...it was...so good..." And now it is his turn to trail off, his eyes evading hers in a sudden panic. In spite of herself and her frustration at his evasion, she's also slightly amused that the man of so many words is suddenly tongue-tied and twisted. Regardless, she knows that they _need_ to have this conversation. She levels a steady gaze at him.

"It matters, Rick." She sees his surprise at her use of his seldom-uttered first name. And although they both know that she's used his first name more in anger than anything else in the past, now she speaks it softly and lovingly. She uses it to get through to him. To make him realise that he shouldn't hide behind his humor, any more than she should hide behind the omission of truth.

"It matters to me. I want to know. I lied to you, and I...hurt you."

He opens his mouth, possibly to protest, but she leans towards him and silences him with a firm kiss.

"Please, let me finish," she breathes after their lips part, and if a man could look simultaneously dazed, blissful, unsure _and_ terrified, it'd be him. He manages to croak out a timid "okay", before he shakes his head as a dog would, and with that shake his miasma seems to at least momentarily disappear. He looks at her alertly, much more like the old Castle would. As if he's trying to see inside her head.

She knows that probing look well. At the start, when he was the annoying jackass she'd been saddled with at the behest of Captain Montgomery and the Mayor, she'd just assumed he was mentally undressing her.

She assumed so many things about him. Even after she'd realised that that look was not just him trying to peer past her clothes...

He's suddenly pushing himself up against the leather bedhead, sliding on the damp sheets until he's sitting upright. He pulls her with him and she willingly follows, straddling his lap and leaning into his embrace. It occurs to her that he's still not willing to let her go, as though he's afraid that she'll jump up and run away from him. Like she's done so many times before, in so many ways. So she sinks into his broad chest, revelling in the feel of him, letting him know with her actions that she's not going anywhere.

But she still needs to know.

"Castle," she murmurs against his skin, "I know I'm not good at this. At opening up." And boy should he know – she told him that two years ago, just before he unwittingly broke her heart when his ex-wife strutted into the precinct and physically claimed him...but she's getting distracted. _Again._ She can feel him anticipating her, knows she's not done.

"I - I wanna start over. No secrets. There've been too many. If we do this...we wipe the slate clean." She raises her head and looks at him. His eyes are unwavering and dark. He hasn't moved. And she still can't read his expression. He looks so uncharacteristically serious, and it unnerves her slightly.

But she mentally breathes a sigh of relief when his face relaxes into a small smile, his eyes crinkling in that familiar way.

 _God I love it when they do that..._

He places a gentle kiss on her forehead. Reaching up to slide his fingers through her damp hair, he murmurs "okay" again. Decisively.

"Okay" she repeats, smiling tentatively. And waits.

It takes him a little while. His eyes slide away to fix on the wall behind them, and he seems a little lost as to where to start.

"I heard you," he finally says. And his confession comes in fits and starts. So unlike his usual confident voice. Like every word is painful.

"In the interrogation room. During the bombing case. I was in the observation room."

Realisation dawns on her. _Of course...he was there. All along._

"You told that kid...Bobby Lopez? You told him that you were shot. And that...you remembered everything."

 _Oh, God._

His voice hitches slightly. "I just...I couldn't deal. I couldn't...face you. I had to leave. I thought you'd lied to me because you...didn't feel the same way. And you were...embarrassed to tell me."

 _I'm such a damned idiot..._

He's so quiet now that she can barely hear him. His voice is like the faintest breeze swiping at her cheeks. But she feels that breeze against the hot tears that slide unbidden down her cheek. And he's still not looking at her as he viciously swipes at the corner of his eye, to prevent the fall of his own tears. A typical masculine impulse, to not let the tears show. Even last night, when he was so broken and defeated, his sheer effort in refusing to cry openly in front of her was staggering.

"I... I thought that we were getting somewhere. I'd been about to confess to you, just earlier that day. To tell you... And then, to hear you say that to some suspect...I just..."

His hoarse voice trails off as he shakes his head slightly, lost in the painful memory.

"Oh, Castle..." and she kisses him gently. Cradling his face in her hands, she lets all the emotion pour out of her. Showing him through er actions that she's sorry, and that even if she can't say it to him right now, that her feelings are just as strong. That she can't even really remember how long she's loved him. It feels like it's been a lifetime.

Suddenly, like before at his door when she kissed him so desperately, he pushes her away abruptly. She gazes at him, confused, until she realises he's still in confessional mode.

"But I know now. And it's no excuse for how I acted. I was an idiot. I should've had the balls to confront you, rather than set out to...hurt you. I'm so sorry, Kate..."

And his voice, still broken, hoarse, and now _angry_ with himself, hits her hard.

She kisses him again, tenderly, quieting him. Stroking his cheek, wiping away the single tear that has managed to break free of his tight restraint, she smiles through the kiss and her own, watery eyes. She's trying to make him smile, trying to coax him back to his normal, irrepressible state, but the weight of all the wasted time suddenly crashes down on her and she can't help but sob.

"Oh god. We both made so many mistakes," she moans, burying her face in the hollow of his neck. "So stupid. So _damn stupid._ So... _afraid..._ "

She clutches his shoulders desperately, feeling them quake and knowing that his dam has finally burst too. But his tears are silent, and through his own emotion he gentles and soothes her, stroking her back, lips in her hair and on the shell of her ear, murmuring to her that it's okay, it's _okay..._

She's normally so tough, so strong. She takes pride in that toughness, knowing that she can take on _anything_. And it feels so strange to be so openly emotional in front of him, to be taking comfort from him. But so right, too. And she's self-aware enough to know that they _both_ need this now.

And even though she thought that they need to speak, she realises that he was right. It doesn't matter now, not really. They've finally made it here. And it only took her almost dying...

He hasn't asked her about that yet. She knows he will. But it can wait.

They're quiet for what feels like an age, listening to their mutual heartbeat and the rain outside. If anything, it seems to have gotten more ferocious. Surely this will be a summer maelstrom to make the history books.

* * *

When he imagined this moment, this confessional moment, he knew it would hurt. He knew there would be tears. He just never thought that the conflicting emotions of happiness and pain would be so visceral.

Or that the words would be so hard coming out. He's a _writer,_ for God's sake. He should be able to use words as a balm just as easily as he can use them as weapons. But when it comes to her, he's again finding that words just fail him.

And what few words he's spoken obviously haven't been that effective in reassuring her. Because just as he thinks she's calmed down, and that her teary panic is over, she pushes away and gazes at him intently.

"God, it all makes sense now. All those things you said at the tail end of that case. Sinning by silence. Cowardly. You said all that and you were _so right -._ "

He sighs and leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers. "Hey. C'mon, we can't keep doing this. Shh..." he kisses her because he loves her, because she's so beautiful even in her current state of self-acrimony, but also because he wants her to _shut up._

But she's Kate Beckett. Remarkable, maddening, challenging, frustrating. Now – more than a little frustrating; but he really can't blame her. He should have expected the emotions following their first time to be ragged and raw.

She continues thinking aloud, almost absently now, as if he were not there. Maybe that helps her get the words out.

"It was so easy, you know? Just so easy just to pretend I'd never heard you say it. To pretend that I didn't see you hurting. And the more time went on, the easier it got...but it also got so much harder to think about...let alone _tell_ you about."

She darts her eyes back toward his, from where they'd been intently focussed on some point behind his head. Meets his eyes with a sudden shock, dismay all over her fine features.

"Oh God, Castle, what must you have thought of me..." she grates out.

He can't stand it anymore. He wishes she would just stop worrying at the half-healed wound of the torment they caused each other. It's just making it all so much more painful. And he doesn't want to see her cry again - not when it'll likely set him off again as well. Even though he's wished so much that she would be more open with him, now that he can see her in the throes of confessional sorrow he's just finding it too heartbreaking.

"Please, Kate. It's okay. I understand, okay? And really, it's all right." He cups her face in his hands, kisses her. "It's in the past. Now is not a time for sadness. It's a time for joy."

Okay, so it's clichéd and a little hackneyed, something he'd maybe expect from a novice novelist like Alex Conrad. It doesn't mean it isn't true. And with gentle kisses, caresses and whispered words, he finally calms her and she relaxes into him once again.

He stares into her eyes again, losing himself in their dark depths. He gently wipes away the tears that glisten on her cheeks, and he feels a thrill as she follows their questing with her lips, kissing his fingertips softly and reaching up one palm to press his harder into her cheek.

The sudden surge of affection he feels for this woman as she smiles at him so tenderly almost shocks him into silence.

Almost. He's also feeling hopeful. Ridiculously, wondrously _happy._ And cheeky. And, as her hips grind into him, suddenly horny as hell. What she _does_ to him...

"You know, lying here beating ourselves and each other up all night about how it could have been different...well. It doesn't sound like a lot of fun. Right?"

She grins a little lop-sided grin at him. "Right," she whispers huskily. "It sounds...counter-productive." Somehow, imperceptibly, she's pressed herself closer. He almost swoons at the sensation; somehow he keeps his head and continues their banter.

"And at the very least, it's such a waste of time."

"Hm. What could we spend the time on instead, d'ya think?"

"Well...we could make it up to each other. In...other ways."

"Other ways, huh?"

"Mmmm...yeah." By now, they're ending each statement a kiss, a touch, a sigh. The blood rushes through his ears as they tease each other.

"So, writer-boy," she murmurs, running her tongue tantalisingly on the shell of his ear, "what did you have in mind?"

He growls playfully, sliding his hands down her back to grasp her hips firmly. "Well, firstly, you're so gonna pay for calling me 'writer-boy'."

"Oh, am I?"

"Oh yes. As you very well know, I'm all writer- _man_ ".

And with that, their verbal teasing ends, and the only sounds that fill the room are those of the age-old dance between two lovers. Not even the storm outside can compete.

Maybe their emotionally-charged confessions and their apologetic words fuel their passion. The tension of issues unspoken and unacknowledged. They still haven't said everything that needs to be said.

But it can wait.

* * *

 ** _It doesn't have to be like this. All we need to do is make sure we keep talking._**

 ** _-_ Stephen Hawking**


	3. Chapter 3 - Louder Than Words

**MAELSTROM**

 **CHAPTER THREE** **– LOUDER THAN WORDS**

* * *

 _A/N - Thank you all for the amazing response to this story. I wasn't expecting this many readers, let alone the praise. Apologies for the length of this chapter..._

 _And again, like the broken record I am, thank you to 47alwayswriting for her beta-ing and her encouragement. Go check out her stories if you haven't already, because they're amazeballs. Yes, I went there._

 _Disclaimer - do I really need to reiterate this? I own nothing._

* * *

" _We speak for the dead. That's the job. We are all they've got once the wicked rob them of their voices. We owe them that. But we don't owe them our lives."_

Captain Roy Montgomery, NYPD Twelfth Precinct. R.I.P.

* * *

Kate stares at the light flaring through the bookshelves that act as a wall between Castle's bedroom and office ( _only a writer would have bookshelves for a privacy screen_ , she smirks to herself). It's serene and peaceful, even with the almost painful contractions of her pupils every time the lightning crashes and bathes the room in vivid white.

She smiles, revelling in the unfamiliar and welcome touch of Castle's feet as they slide against hers. He's wrapped around her back like a comforting shawl; she's never felt so good about being the little spoon before. She squirms pleasantly as he presses his lips softly against the nape of her neck, arching her backside into him as his palm slowly, lazily explores her body.

He's very talented in bed, and she's not surprised about that. God knows, his reputation as a Page 6 playboy exists for a reason. But it's the gentle possessiveness after their earth-shaking sex that she's finding the most surprising thing about him. He can't stop touching her, whether he's making love to her or not.

She's always been a little reluctant to truly give in to post-sex snuggling, always a little awkward and standoffish, even with longer term partners like Josh. But she's not like that with Castle. As strange as it seems, cuddling, kissing, coming down from the high with Castle – it's the most natural thing in the world. She can't imagine _not_ doing this with him.

 _How things change_ , she suddenly thinks, ruefully remembering what he was like at the start, and what _she_ was like. How their adversarial relationship slowly led to _this._

If she's completely honest with herself, yet again, she knows she's imagined what it would be like with Castle. There's always been that temptation. From the very start, she'd found him physically attractive, even though he was an exasperating ass. And even though actually meeting him had utterly destroyed any of the fangirlish crush she'd had for him through his writing and from that brief book signing years ago, it had been replaced with an infuriating attraction that she'd had to fight hard to succumb to.

He was definitely the most aggravating man she'd ever had to deal with; but there was a spark. She came pretty close to jumping his bones after that first case, just before she came to her senses and whispered teasingly in his ear before sauntering away. And as she'd gotten to know him, respect him and even like him, that temptation only grew.

Paradoxically, it also became easier to deny. At first it was because she enjoyed the game too much – their constant teasing, bantering, bickering – all part of the choreographed, sexy dance they both loved to engage in. It was safe. There was no real danger of it ever becoming real. Until it became very, _very_ real.

Slowly, like stone being eroded by water, the real essence of their feelings was revealed. And with the revelations came the misunderstandings, the jealousies, the betrayals. Like Castle had brokenly and tearfully told her the night before – _everything they'd been through._ It was so much. So much more than any normal couple had to endure.

But then, they'd never been normal. Not even close.

Even before that day when she died on the grass alongside Montgomery, Castle hovering above her, pleading her to live and to love him – she knew that whatever they had together would be beyond intense. There could be no "one-foot-out-the-door" mentality with him. It would be all or nothing. The thought scared the absolute hell out of her.

That was why she hid from him for three months. That was why she pretended she'd not heard his desperate confession. Why she'd been so unsure of letting him know that she felt it too. And why, even after all that's happened in the past twenty-four hours (no scratch that – in the past three and a half _years_ ), she still can't bring herself to say those simple words to him.

 _I love you._

 _I love you, Castle. Rick. Richard Castle._

 _I love Richard Castle._

Even in her head, they sound surreal.

The truth, she knows, all goes back to the wall. Like the song said, it was all just bricks in the wall. She used disappointments, tragedies, and badly-timed declarations of love to add to the damnable thing, brick by brick. It kept her from jumping headlong into this. She knows part of it is still there, just waiting for an opportunity, one little misstep, one little misunderstanding, to start her rebuilding it and to trap her again. But she's come this far. She's stepped over the crumbled remains of it and she _knows_ that she won't rebuild it.

All the while she's lying there in the circle of his arms, listening to the relentless rain and feeling his heart beat at her back – even while part of her mind is whirling and trying its best to spin her into a panic spiral, she knows the siren call of the wall won't prevail. Because she knows why she's here. She's chosen him over the job. She's chosen him over vengeance, and in spite of the secret he kept from her these past eight months.

She's chosen him over the desolation of loneliness, and the acid bite of nebulous hatred.

Because, as she hung by her fingertips on that rooftop, with only sheer willpower keeping her there, and even before she thought she heard his voice, all she could think of was the sorrow in knowing what Castle's reaction would be if he found out about her death by a newspaper headline. Or from Javi or Kevin. Or Captain Gates. Or her dad...

Maybe she should feel guilty, that the thoughts that flashed through her mind as she came so close to death weren't even of her father. But as she strokes the back of Castle's hand as it plays lightly over her belly, she can't even feel a smidgen of remorse.

All of a sudden, she needs to feel him in her arms; she turns, sliding over the sheet, and buries her face in his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him fiercely. He's not even surprised – he just envelopes her in a hug that takes her breath away. Literally. She winces slightly as he squeezes her bruised ribs, unable to stop the slight hiss of pain.

Memories of Maddox and their fight on the rooftop of the Rosslyn Hotel suddenly flash through her mind, and as well as the anger and ferocity of her feelings towards the assassin, and his callous cruelty. She's suddenly aware of just _how close_ she came to dying. It terrifies her in a way that confronting her own mortality never has before, and she has looked into that deep abyss of impending doom many times. But now – she has so much to lose. And she came so close to losing it before it even became a reality. She can't help but shudder at the thought.

Castle pulls back slightly at her wince, concerned. His face tightens as he seems to recognise the damage to her skin - the legacy of her tussle on the rooftop – for the first time. No doubt taking in the bruising that's rising across her ribs, the tender spot under them where Maddox viciously slammed his knee into her. She realises that she must look a wreck. Not that he seemed to care before, as he worshipped and ravished her body with a reverence that had her regretting, yet again, that they'd not done this sooner. But whereas before his eyes were filled with wonder and a healthy dose of lust, she sees now that they're narrowed and questioning.

She knows what he's going to ask – she knew it was coming. And she steels herself for another confession.

Her mind drifts to that morning, as she stood at Johanna Beckett's grave. The sunlight was so incongruous as it bathed her in its warmth, but it couldn't touch the freezing cold at her core. She'd let her tears flow unhindered as she grieved the loss of her innocence, her mother's life, and as she thought then, any kind of life she might have had with Castle. His betrayal was only part of her sorrow.

At that moment, she had thought she would never forgive him for his lies of omission. But hours later, she had almost met her doom. And all she could think about was him.

And now, she feels a pang of regret that in making her decision, in choosing him, she will probably never know what truly happened to her mother in that arctic alley thirteen years ago. But as she stares into the troubled eyes of her lover, the man who started the whole ball rolling again, she knows that she can let it go. That her mother would think it's okay. That Johanna would probably tell her something reminiscent of what Montgomery said to her last year - "I'm dead, Katie. You're still alive. Live your life, darling. _Please._ "

She's going to do just that. Embrace life, for the first time in so long. And that means not hiding anything from this man. But she knows herself, and how keeping things to herself, bottled up, is more than just a compulsion. It's been the way she's defined herself for such a long time. It's second nature. Even she were not burdened with that protective but ultimately self-destructive tendency, it would still be so hard to relate the detailed story of the last twelve hours, with the pain and the humiliation so raw.

She's naked in his arms, but that's not enough. She knows it, and _he_ knows it. He needs her to be open with him, and she knows she owes it to him. Not to mention to herself.

* * *

"Beckett. Tell me what happened. You said you almost died."

Her eyes momentarily evade his. She's clearly uncomfortable about elaborating on her doorstep confession, as she stood there pleading with him in that soft voice with tears marring her fine features. He won't let her off the hook, as she didn't let _him_ off the hook in the pursuit of his shameful confession.

"I need to know." His voice is gentle, but insistent. He tilts her head up with a fingertip under her chin, slightly forcefully, so she can't avoid his gaze.

She's silent, and her eyes give nothing away, unwavering and hooded. But she nods, and softly, haltingly tells the story.

Of how they tracked down the man who went under the name of Maddox through the car he rented – the long-shot that was the blurry videocaption of the casually-brandished keychain paying off and eventually leading to the Rosslyn Hotel.

Of how he got the drop on them in his room as they pored over the photo album he had procured from the late Captain Montgomery's office. How he took Espo down mercilessly, as if the former Special Forces soldier were just a rookie.

Her voice gets softer and hoarser as she tells him, in choppy sentences, about the fight, and how she ended up hanging from a rooftop.

She doesn't need to give him details. Lord knows his imagination is good enough to supply them, fill in the blanks, and leave his gut twisted in tension and self-recrimination.

 _You should have been there, you stupid asshole._

He's stayed silent throughout her story; for once he didn't feel the need to interject with questions or pithy comments. He knows she's leaving things out – he can see through her tells pretty well, even when – no, _especially_ when _–_ she's lying in his arms. But he knows it's hard for her, so he doesn't push it.

The story ends. Ryan – Kevin Ryan, not him ( _and it should have been me, damn it_ ) saved her life. Pulled her up from the brink of oblivion. And while he's glad she told him – and that she _lived_ to tell him – the conflicting emotions and shameful thoughts run rampant. Selfish, unwanted thoughts swirling with self-damning ones.

 _You had to fall in love with a woman this headstrong, didn't you, Rick?_

 _My god, why did I start this? Why did I dig into this case in the first place? She should NEVER have been put in that position._

 _She couldn't help herself, could she? She just had to poke the wasps' nest._

 _Why didn't I just TELL her what I knew? We could have prevented this..._

On and on they roll, a loud, messy cacophony in his head, feuding voices screaming for his attention, while he does his best to ignore them and remain silent. He's afraid to speak; he doesn't know what to say. A not uncommon occurrence when it comes to Kate Beckett – as his mother once berated him.

" _For a man who makes his living with words, you sure have a hell of a time finding them when it counts."_

He's reminded of that again as she grasps his chin, forcing him to face her and look her in the eyes. "Castle, say something. Your silence...it's kinda unnerving."

He forces out a chuckle. "Sorry. I just... I'm just so glad you're okay." It's pathetic, really, and he's ashamed of his awkwardness. _Glad she's okay? Good God, man, you're not just glad. You're ECSTATIC. What the hell is wrong with you?_

But she seems a little relieved; she smiles and lightly kisses him. Gazes fondly at him, and all the misgivings he's had about her, ever – they all seem to fade into insignificance when she looks at him like that.

"I should send Ryan a million bucks or something. Thank you card at the least. If he hadn't been there..."

"Yeah," she hums. "Thank god. I couldn't even be angry at him for telling Gates."

He does a double-take - she hadn't said anything about that. "Oh man. Gates knows? How much does she know?" He's suddenly worried about the scope of the whole coverup they've perpetrated for the last year. And how nasty the fallout might be for them all – but especially for her – if ex-Internal Affairs Iron Gates has the entire story in front of her.

 _And Montgomery's name will be mud..._

"Not sure, to be honest. Anyway, it doesn't matter any more. It's done. I'm done with it."

She unconsciously echoes the same words he told her last night. Her words disquiet him. This doesn't sound like the Beckett he knows – the tenacious fighter who runs headlong into danger. Sure, she tearfully apologised and then made him forget every entreaty in his head that had him damning her and her memory to the trashcan of his history – but this sounds so... final. Almost defeatist.

He hesitantly glides his hand from where it rests on her shoulder, across her sharp collarbone, to the hollow of her throat, and then down between her breasts, to tenderly circle the scar with his thumb. Her scar. _Their_ scar. A tidal wave of emotion threatens to overwhelm him as he takes in that blemish – that vivid reminder of how close he came to losing her. And he can't believe that she means it, that she's really willing to just throw away her quest for him. Even though he wanted her to do it, _begged_ her.

He's still finding it so hard to be candid with her, even after all they've shared. She's opened up to him in the past few hours more than she ever has before, physically and emotionally, but he still finds himself wary of this newfound forthrightness. It's a strange new dynamic and while he loves it, and her more for it, he doesn't know how tenuous it is, and he's afraid of scaring her back into her burrow like she's a wild animal he just managed to coax into eating out of his hand. Even so, he knows there's more to the story. There almost always is. And his natural curiosity, his greatest asset but also a curse, rears its ugly head again.

"What do you think happened to Maddox?" he suddenly blurts out. Funny how as soon as she does what he wants her to do - forget about the whole thing - his curiosity is piqued. "I mean, leaving you there to die? Isn't that the biggest cliché a supervillain can be guilty of, short of telling you the whole plan and cackling evilly...?"

He trails off as she shoots him the old, familiar Beckett glare, and he's oddly reassured at its return. But also a little guilty as he realises he was making a joke about her _almost dying_.

"Sorry. I know – my coping mechanisms can be a little inappropriate," he mutters.

"Just a _little_?" she retorts, but there's not much sting in her words as a small smile replaces the grim look. It's short-lived, though, as she sobers once again.

"I meant it, though. I am done. I choose you." She punctuates each sentence with a kiss. As if she's sealing each promise.

"Even when I was hanging there, you were all I could think about. I even..." and her voice fades.

"What?"

"It's...stupid." She ducks her head, suddenly embarrassed.

"Hey." Again, he gently tips her face up so she can't avoid _his_ gaze. "Please, tell me. It's obviously important."

She chuckles, but even in the dim he can see the color rising to her cheeks. Whatever she's holding back is actually mortifying to her.

"It's just that...while Ryan was running to the edge, calling my name...I swear at that moment I heard your voice. It was you calling my name. And when he pulled me up...God. Poor guy, I feel so bad for him. He saved my life and all I could do was say your name."

He silently processes this. He can imagine her all too vividly, hanging from the edge and answering what she thought was his call. His guilt, ever close to the surface of his mind, comes rushing up again.

"I really thought it was you," she continues, murmuring now. "And that's when I realised...that you mattered more."

He now knows what it feels like to feel free as a bird, heart aloft, and at the same time like that same bird being cruelly crushed underfoot. It's an odd sensation. He's horrified.

 _I should have been there. Oh God, why wasn't I there?_

He hadn't had her back. He'd left her. And she almost died. It doesn't matter what he'd told her the night before. He'd made a promise to her, even if she'd never known about it. He'd said he would protect her. He'd told the Mystery Man, Montgomery's friend, that he would keep her safe. And in the end, he just couldn't do it. He's ashamed of his cowardice and his pride.

It almost got her killed. She might have been ready to throw her life away, but he'd almost let her.

"I...I shouldn't have walked away last night. I should have...I don't know, even _physically restrained_ you..."

* * *

...she's dismayed as she sees him choking back a sob at his utterance. _Oh, Castle..._

"Don't you understand?" She reaches up and cups his cheeks in her hands, pulling his forehead down to meet hers. Staring deep into those shimmering eyes. The look on his face – he's so miserable, his face so downcast, and she has to nip that in the bud right now. She can't have him blaming himself, yet again.

"You did the right thing. You _told me_. All those things I said...that was _before._ I understand now. Really." She shoots him a rueful little grin. "And besides, you know I can kick your ass, right? 'Physically restrained me'? Really?"

Her attempt at humor doesn't quite work. He just sadly smiles in return. And she suddenly remembers that night in the hangar with Montgomery, when he _did_ physically lift her up and carry her away, away from her benefactor and betrayer. And they left _him_ to die.

She has a feeling he's remembering the same thing too. She forces the memory away – it's not something she wants to deal with now. This current hurt is more important.

She ponders the pain she felt last night towards Castle. The anger. And how it seems so irrelevant now. Eons have passed since she'd thought he had walked out of her life for good, and she finds it hard to believe that she could ever have thought that she could let him go.

The silence between them deepens, stretches. Louder than words.

She's never been good at words, and while he's usually a master of them, it seems that they've deserted him. So for once, she has to be the one to _try_ and articulate what this all means to her.

"I know you didn't betray me now, Castle. I know you were protecting me, and why. I...look, I still wish you'd told me sooner, but I understand why you didn't."

He nods slightly, his eyes hooded. He can't stop staring at the scar that mars her chest. "You'd've gotten yourself killed. I just couldn't let that happen..."

"I know. I know." She reaches down to grasp his hand, and presses his fingers once more into the scar. Letting him feel it. Its rough edges. All of its meaning.

"I would've fallen into that rabbit hole again. I told my therapist that I wanted to be more, that I didn't want to let Mom's death define me anymore. And you...all this time, you were helping me do that in your own way."

And he _has_ been there. After three months of silence, and then eight more of keeping him at arms' length – but never further than that because she still selfishly _needed him_ – even after she broke his heart, he was there. Watching her. Waiting for her. Loving her.

He's watching her now, and his eyes seem to be swimming. Or maybe it's that her own vision is blurred. But his love for her is written so clearly on his face, it might as well be tattooed into his forehead.

And though she _still_ can't bring herself to say those words to him, she knows that he knows. It's so obvious in the way she's holding him, with her arms and with her gaze. She doesn't need to shout it from the rooftops.

Still, she has so much to say. So much she wants to say. But even after all the talking they've done tonight, words seem inadequate and clumsy.

So she settles for simple.

"Thank you." Her voice catches around a lump in her throat. "Thank you, for looking out for me. Thank you for being there."

His voice in return is choked, and so quiet that she barely hears him. But that lovely word – _their_ word, so imbued with meaning – she thinks she would hear it if she were still standing outside in the storm gazing up at his window.

"Always."

She stops trying to hold back the tears. There's no need now – not when she's bared her body and soul to this man more than she ever has with anyone before. She buries her face once more into the crook of his neck and breathes deeply, taking in their combined scent, composing herself so she doesn't spend the rest of the night blubbering on him. Because it would be such a pity to go to sleep still sad. Not that she has to be anywhere tomorrow...

And with that, she remembers. She really _doesn't_ have to be anywhere tomorrow. She's not even a cop anymore.

* * *

In the silence that speaks so much louder than words, he holds her in his arms. Still so unbelieving that she's _here,_ and that she's been so open with him. Kate Beckett, the woman who would sometimes rather gnaw off her own hand than share her feelings. He's so happy, he's still half-convinced that this is all a figment of his imagination.

And then, she chuckles. It almost sounds rueful.

"Don't know what I'm gonna do now, though. With my life."

"With...your life? What?" He's confused and slightly alarmed as he clutches her shoulders and pushes her away so he can stare at her again.

"Well... I quit."

He's still not getting it. He's hearing words but they're not registering.

"Quit? Quit what?"

She raises an eyebrow, smiling in a slightly sardonic way. "My job, Castle. What else would I be talking about?"

She's managed to surprise him yet again. He would never dream that she would give up being a cop. It's what she _is_ – more than a job, it's her entire _life_.

"But...why?"

"Well. Gates was gonna suspend me anyway. And...well."

He can see the cogs in her head turning as she ponders her own words. Through his shock, he can see that she's just realising that she hadn't thought it through all that deeply either.

But steely resolve suddenly transforms her features, and there – _there_ is the Beckett he's known all this time and loved so fiercely. The determined, tenacious woman who doesn't back down.

"I did it for you, Castle. And for me. It's one way to distance myself from the case."

The full implications of her words hit him. He realises just how much her life has been turned upside down and back to front by his presence in it. How much he's changed her.

"You... f- for me? Oh Kate... I..." And he's speechless again.

She tenderly runs a finger over his lips, as if to stop him from attempting to run his mouth. "I can't go back there. I'd just be so close to temptation. It's like I said all those years ago, you know? I'm like a recovering alcoholic craving one last drink. It'll never be enough. And I really don't care anymore. Not...not enough to stop.." she trails off, and kisses him.

"Not enough to stop this."

Her words comfort him, and amaze him. Just when he thought he couldn't fall for her any deeper than he already has, there she goes and challenges his perceptions again. But the guilt still lingers. He can't help but think of the wounds he opened with his curiosity. The dragon he awoke.

He knows all this, and if he had a keyboard and about five minutes, he could eruditely express them to her. But all he can do is stammer out: "If...I can't help but think...if I hadn't...if I hadn't gone digging in the first place..."

But she's not having any of it.

"Shh. We've been through this before. Years ago, I believe," she says fondly, but unable to hide her slight exasperation. "And if you hadn't done that, gone digging, we might not be here now. _This_ might not be happening right now. So don't lie there second-guessing, okay? Because I _do not_ regret this. At all."

Her voice, so clear and emphatic, is his lifeline.

He smiles. It might take him a little while to really believe her, and to absolve himself completely of the guilt he feels for so irrevocably upending her life, but it's a start.

They're both damaged people, but together, maybe they can fix themselves. Forgive themselves and each other for their transgressions. For the lies they told themselves and each other.

Even with his writer's imagination, he can't even predict where they'll be in a few days' time, let alone months or years. He tries to see it and he can't. But he knows that that isn't a bad omen – it's an indication of how good it is right now, and how good it feels, and that he can't imagine it being any better.

He certainly knows that the sudden feel of her hand as it glides down to cup his butt is one of the best things he's ever felt in his life. This is one dream that has _definitely_ come true...

And he can see it on her face – that mischievous expression she gets when teasing him. The sly grin. Those sexy eyes, now hooded with need for him. And the memory of her face as she was underneath him, writhing with him – he now knows that look and he'll never forget it. And his old, smug self crows in triumph at the fact that _he did that to_ _her_...

He still hasn't said a word since she spoke – he hasn't had any to say, not while he's been so content to drink in her beauty and revel in the feel of her. But he can tell she's slightly impatient...and judging by her actions, for more than just words.

And there's no need for any more words for the immediate future – not when the hand that was on his butt is now sliding over his hip to his front, and starting a fire...

Once more, the blood rushing through his ears silences the pounding of the storm still raging outside, and momentarily quells the maelstrom of emotions that they've put themselves through tonight. With the rustle of sheets, hushed whispers that quickly escalate into loud entreaties, and the wonder that is their joined bodies, they forget about everything except the here and now.

* * *

 ** _Let's go with the flow, wherever it goes, we're more than alive_**

 **Pink Floyd - "Louder Than Words"**


	4. Epilogue - Coming Back To Life

**MAELSTROM**

 **EPILOGUE – COMING BACK TO LIFE**

* * *

 _A/N - Thank you, all, for reading, for commenting, and for your encouragement. I couldn't have imagined a better welcome! Hope you've enjoyed the ride. Thanks once more to **47alwayswriting** , because she rocks._

 _Have a relatively short (for me, anyway!) epilogue._

 _Disclaimer - None of this is mine. Just playing surreptitiously in the corners of large sandboxes, hoping the big kids won't notice and come over to kick my arse._

* * *

The silence in his bedroom is profound after their third joining. Deep, but not awkward. They've exhausted all their words, cried all their tears, and made amazing love enough times to seal a new compact between them. And the storm outside has finally beat itself into oblivion; a steady drizzle falls and streaks the windows, but it's quiet and soothing. The storm has scoured the world, and her. It cleansed her soul, cleared her conscience and girded her loins. She'll forever be grateful to the memory of it; and a little sad to see it go.

She lies with her head on his chest, idly playing with his skin as he breathes heavily. He's falling asleep and she beams to herself, feeling the delicious lethargy in her own limbs.

 _Poor baby, I really knocked him out. Not to mention surprised him._

There's a smug (one could even say "Castle-esque") pride in knowing that she'd shown Richard Castle some things that he never thought were possible, let alone that they could happen to _him_. And now, he's utterly boneless and exhausted, and there's definite pride in _that._

He's not quite asleep yet, though. "Mmm...wow," he murmurs. A slight shiver runs through her as his hand strokes gently through the mess that is her hair.

She sighs, her nose nuzzling him. "Yeah...wow." That's all she can manage. After all, it's been a long night. And sometimes eloquence isn't needed.

As she feels her eyelids get heavier and the blanket of sleep finally start to settle upon her, she hears his quiet voice again. Plaintive and questioning.

"Kate?" He almost sounds like a young boy.

"Hmm?"

"You'll be here when I wake up, right? This isn't some fantastic dream...?"

Her heart breaks slightly at the hesitancy in his voice.

"No, Rick. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here." She butterflies gentle kisses into his chest, to drive the point home. To reassure him.

"...good..." he whispers huskily, and with that, sleep finally claims him.

As she gazes at his sleeping face, she can't help but remember another time when she watched him sleep. They were over thirty-thousand feet in the air, and she was clutching a letter from a dead friend. All the while, she couldn't keep her eyes off the resting, boyish face of the man she still couldn't admit to herself, let alone him, that she loved so dearly. Like Mike Royce had said from the grave, she had fought it. Tooth and nail. In the end, the fight was for naught. It claimed her, and she couldn't be happier that she lost _that_ particular battle.

She knows tomorrow there might be more questions, more fears. But it's better than being trapped in a prison of her own making, never letting anyone close.

She knows that she has months, maybe years, of damage left to fix. The wall she built irrevocably left its mark on her, changed her, and it's only because of the man she shares a bed with now that she can see a world without that wall in place.

The night they've shared has been fraught with tears, high emotion. But to counter that, it's been a night of tenderness, understanding, and sublime physical contact. And their shared night has begun to heal the wounds that he unwittingly opened so long ago - wounds which she then pried open even further. It has been a panacea for the searing injuries they've inflicted upon each other all these years. It has indelibly linked them in a way that cannot be easily undone.

It has freed her. In rejecting the prison that held her back – her obsession with her mother's case – for another prison – the arms of Richard Castle...paradoxically, it is freedom.

For the first time in what seems like a million years, she can see the possibility of life beyond her seething need for vengeance and justice. Beyond pain and loneliness.

Since that freezing January night, when she was still just a child, she's been more than trapped behind a wall – a part of her has been cold and dead inside. And she hadn't even realised _how_ cold and dead she was until Richard Castle wormed his way into her professional life, and then her personal life. Roy Montgomery had been right – he _was_ good for her.

More than good. He has become her lifeline. And as loathe as she is to rely on anyone, or depend upon anyone, she can't – and doesn't even _want_ to – deny the need she has for him. Or deny the fact that he's helped her come back to life.

And she knows that she can't imagine her life without him in it.

It will be hard, adjusting to Castle in her life in _this_ new way. She's under no illusions that it will be a smooth ride. But after everything they've been through together, she can't imagine them _not_ doing this. Not trying.

As sleep creeps up on her, she almost unconsciously mumbles the words into his skin. He can't hear them, but he sure as hell knows the truth of them already, without needing to.

"I love you, Castle."

And outside, the maelstrom has finally ended. The rain peters out, and the dim light of dawn approaches.

* * *

 ** _I took a heavenly ride through our silence_**

 ** _I knew the moment had arrived_**

 ** _For killing the past and coming back to life._**

 **Pink Floyd - "Coming Back To Life"**


End file.
